


Bad Beginnings: A Series of Unfortunate Accidents

by Lynchy8



Series: Take Your Chance [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brief Mentions Of Rape, Enjolras is capable of being terrble, M/M, Oneshot, R IS terrible, dystopian au, references to canon speeches, unhealthy relationship, unimportant deaths, violent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1413124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's formative years in the Youth Programme System. How he met Enjolras and Jehan. Part of the "Take Your Chance" series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Beginnings: A Series of Unfortunate Accidents

**Author's Note:**

> cw for mentions of rape, for lots of violence and death - but no one major.

The first time was an accident. Not even one of _those_ accidents, you know, where Enjolras had asked him to control himself just for once and make it look like suicide, or perhaps the victim in question had been far too careless at the top of the stairs.

It was an actual accident. Grantaire had been eleven years old. 

The Youth Improvement and Training Programme was the posh term for what was, essentially, housing for children the government didn’t know what to do with. Like prisons, they operated on a security scale. The nicer children, usually the youngest or most receptive, had the option of being adopted by Party Members looking for a protégé. Grantaire had never been on that list. The worst children; the ones who were violent, had committed serious crimes against the state or who were thought to be beyond reclamation; they were sent to Auxxone, just outside Dijon. Grantaire wasn’t there either. Not yet.

He was in the upper-middle group; children that the State hadn’t yet decided about. These children, along with the ones in the lower-middle group, were taught skills prudent to their futures. A lot of them were courted to join the National Guard, the Gendarmerie or the army. The brightest of this group might even earn the rank of officer, if they worked hard enough.

Grantaire was quiet, but inattentive. He had a keen mind, a little too keen perhaps, but he was lazy, and had been beaten for it on a number of occasions. He kept himself to himself and found it difficult to form friendships with the other children, mostly due to the large scar that ran down the right side of his face. He was also prone to violent outbursts when provoked, which made the other children keep their distance.

There was a boy in their building who was new. He had just been moved there from another Programme and it soon became clear why. This boy was a bully. He picked on the weakest child in the room, isolated them completely and made their lives a misery until someone stepped in. Then he found someone else and so the cycle continued. In a month he was moved to three different dormitories in the building.

It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Grantaire had a cold the night the new boy joined their dorm. Had he arrived a week earlier or a week later he might have chosen himself another victim and lived longer. As it was, he didn’t survive the night. If he had tried to speak to the other boys first, to get a feel for his environment, rather than following his own poor instincts he would have known not to approach Grantaire in any way at all. 

Grantaire only hit him once. It was a smart blow to the side of the head that sent the other flying to the floor with a sickening crack. There were plenty of witnesses in the room to say that Grantaire was provoked, that the other boy was a known bully and that Grantaire had only hit him once. But that didn’t change the fact that the boy was now dead, having choked on his own tongue after the initial blow struck him unconscious.

Grantaire had been very stoic about the whole thing. He didn’t cry or make a fuss or beg for forgiveness. He seemed surprised at how kindly the staff spoke to him, and even more surprised when they said he wouldn’t be punished for it; that he was clearly defending himself and hadn’t meant to kill anyone. What the staff didn’t know, and what Grantaire certainly wasn’t going to tell them, was that as he had thrown that punch he had put into it everything he had. When his fist had connected with his opponent’s face, he’d had every intention of killing. The fact that it had worked had been the most surprising thing of all.

Two months later, after the funeral and the enquiry, it was decided that Grantaire should be moved. It had been an accident, they all said. But a boy was dead. Grantaire descended to lower-middle.

+

Grantaire watched Enjolras from afar.

He had lived quietly at the lower-middle Programme building for two years before Enjolras was transferred there after having been evicted from his main-stream school. From what Grantaire understood, Enjolras’s parents were a big noise in Paris and to have a son enter the Youth Programme, especially at such a level, had been a mortifying experience.

Enjolras was blinding. He cultivated a small group of friends around him and Grantaire often heard them speak about the future which, really, was a dangerous topic to be spoken about anywhere, never mind inside a government institute. But it was impossible not to listen. Enjolras was everything Grantaire was not; he was popular, he was vibrant, he was stunningly beautiful. Enjolras wanted to build the world up. Grantaire wanted to watch it burn.

They had spoken only once before and Grantaire doubted that Enjolras remembered. Or rather, he hoped that Enjolras had forgotten. It had been in Enjolras’s first month and had not gone well. Grantaire had been sitting too close while Enjolras spoke to his group of disciples about change, about literature, democracy and equality. Because he was too close, Enjolras heard Grantaire’s derisive snort. An argument had broken out, words were exchanged but not blows, although Grantaire could tell that Enjolras was just itching to punch him.

They were eventually separated by a member of staff who had come to see what all the noise was about. They were reprimanded but not punished as no actual physical fighting had taken place. They were made to shake hands, and Grantaire had refused to wash his hands for a week as though the touch of Enjolras held magical properties.

He still listened, but he kept his distance. He was drawn inexorably to Enjolras’s light. He watched the boy soar.

+

Ten months after their argument, Grantaire was sitting quietly in the common room, attention apparently absorbed by his book. Enjolras was nearby, talking as usual.

“We shall transform the Great French Republic into the Immense Human Republic,” he said, jumping up onto a table, eyes bright. Grantaire watched him over the top of his book.

“Can you imagine the future?” Enjolras blazed. “People like us used to dream of the amazing changes to be wrought in the next century. Without those dreams we would never have had the train. People used to fly! Our grandparents once travelled the world in a day. So why might not our children? Why must be remain cooped in this stagnant nation, hiding from the world?”

There was a murmur of disquiet in the room.

“Get down, Enjolras,” one boy said, looking nervously at the door. “You’ll get us into trouble talking like that.”

Enjolras scowled, but climbed down off the table, sinking into a nearby chair.

“Imagine being free to think and say what you want!”

Imagine indeed! Grantaire imagined, late at night. He imagined Enjolras in all sorts of ways; he was haunted by Enjolras and could not get the boy out of his head. 

The next day they were all summoned to an assembly. There was an uncomfortable silence in the room, an atmosphere of apprehension. 

“There are words being spoken in these halls which, spoken outside the sanctuary of your childhood, would see you hang.” The Head Ward peered over his lectern at the two hundred boys in the room. Grantaire felt his heart flip in his chest.

“Dissent of any form at any age will not be tolerated,” the man roared. You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed.

“Enjolras!”

Heads turned, a united exhale as each boy was instantaneously horrified and relieved. Grantaire spotted Enjolras three rows ahead, shoulders back, head held high, chin out in defiance.

“Here! Now!” the Head Ward barked, his face red. There was a moment where Grantaire actually thought Enjolras might refuse. But then he was walking, one leg in front of the other, no sign of fear. He mounted the stairs to join the Head Ward on the stage. The whole room held its breath while Enjolras was ordered to bend over in front of them.

Grantaire shut his eyes, but he could not keep out the swish and crack of the cane. The sound haunted him and he felt an old bubble of anger begin to rise.

+

“I know who it was,” Grantaire murmured, slipping into the seat beside the blond. Enjolras was alone, deserted by his so-called friends. He gave no sign of having heard, continuing to eat his lunch and ignore the new arrival.

“I know who it was who gave you away,” he persisted. Three days had passed since the assembly. Most of the school had found something else to talk about. But there was always someone who knew something.

“So? It doesn’t matter. They’re all just a bunch of blind sheep.” Enjolras stabbed at his cabbage rather violently.

“I believe in you,” Grantaire muttered quietly. Enjolras looked up at him, eyes narrowed. His lower lip was red and pouting even more than usual. Grantaire felt his stomach drop as Enjolras leaned towards him.

“Prove it.”

+

There really wasn’t much actual proof. And really, it could have been an accident. No one was able to sufficiently explain why there were live rounds in the guns used for training. And certainly there was no evidence to suggest that the dead boy had been targeted deliberately. He was shot from a distance on a routine exercise. Any boy could have done it.

But the fact was, the boy was dead. The boy was dead less than two weeks after informing the staff of Enjolras’s inflammatory speeches, and the person who had been holding the gun that just happened to contain live ammunition rather than the blanks issued to everyone else was Grantaire.

There was no actual proof, but both boys were sent to Auxxone nonetheless.

+

By the time he was fifteen, Grantaire had been trained how to clean, assemble and operate a variety of firearms. By the time he was sixteen, Grantaire had killed twice. More significantly, he had also gotten away with it.

At Auxxone there were no training exercises or lessons on weaponry. Boys were taught how to operate machinery, to be useful in society. Once they were eighteen, those that had been sent there to serve a sentence were moved to various prison camps around the country. The others who were there through the workings of the System were simply released into the world and expected to become model citizens. Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure into which category he and Enjolras had been placed.

“There’s a new boy,” Enjolras was peeling an apple, pretending to ignore the rest of the room. Grantaire jerked his head to indicate that he was already more than aware of the new boy. There was always interest when someone new hit the rock bottom of Auxxone. Everyone wanted to know what the fresh meat had done to end up here.

“What do you think of him?” Enjolras still did not look at Grantaire, never looked at him in public, never gave anyone any reason to think they were more than just roommates. They had been at Auxxone nine months. No one could really call them friends. They hardly ever spoke, and certainly never laughed together. If they were in the same class they sat with other people. Enjolras berated Grantaire for leaving his stuff lying around. Grantaire laughed at Enjolras for having a stick up his arse. They tolerated each other at best.

 _If only they knew_.

“He’s killed at least once. Possibly twice. He favours a blade. Doesn’t like guns.” Grantaire rattled the information off almost casually, before stuffing another chip in his mouth. The new boy interested him greatly. He noticed how the boy had been issued only plastic cutlery, a fork and a spoon. He saw how he had jumped when the door to the hall had banged shut unexpectedly, how a hand had slid automatically to his side, as though reaching for the ghost of a weapon. Grantaire could smell a killer a mile off.

“I want him,” Enjolras stated, taking a bite of his apple. Grantaire grinned.

“That one, you’ll have to earn. He won’t be won over by pretty speeches.”

“Win him for me, R?” Enjolras closed his eyes briefly, soft golden lashes resting on his cheeks, before putting the apple down and turning the full force of those blue eyes on the scruffy teenager in front of him. Grantaire pulled a face. “Please.”

+

The new boy’s name was Jean Prouvaire, he was only just fifteen years old and he was a poet. A man had taken a fancy to him and tried to rape him in a park. Prouvaire had slit his throat and now he was in Auxxone.

They found all this out afterwards. First, Grantaire had picked a fight with him. It was far too easy; someone was going to do it sooner or later. It was the standard welcome to all new bodies arriving at Auxxone. _Welcome to hell, you’ve hit the bottom, there’s no way down from here_. 

Prouvaire had put up a good show and Grantaire respected him for that. He got in quite a few good blows and even managed to create a sharp edge out of the broken plastic fork, stabbing Grantaire harshly in the wrist with it. It was a smart move but he still lost, Grantaire pinning him to the floor. While the rest of the room erupted in uproar, cheering and goading, he leaned forward to whisper in the new boy’s ear. No one else heard what he said and Prouvaire never told a living soul. 

Eventually Grantaire was dragged off by bored wardens and they were both sent to solitary confinement for three days. It was a horrible few nights for Grantaire, being on his own for the first time in nine months. When he was released, he and Enjolras shut themselves away in their room, curled up on Enjolras’s bed, foreheads pressed together as though reading each other’s minds.

“The things I do for you,” Grantaire murmured. Enjolras smiled before kissing his cheek. 

The next day, Prouvaire joined the other two for lunch. He shook hands with Grantaire who clapped him on the back and proudly showed off his new scar. Enjolras smiled, welcoming the new boy to his table.

+

Six months later a huge fire broke out at Auxxone and the whole place burned to the ground. Eighty-three boys died, along with ten members of staff. Several other boys remained unaccounted for and, most unfortunately, the records had all been destroyed in the disaster so it was almost impossible to tell who was dead and who was missing. It was assumed to have been a horrible accident and various enquiries were initiated to ensure the fire safety of other government buildings and institutions.

One detail not reported in the press was that the fire was started in the Head Ward’s office. The body of the Head Ward was found in the remains of a cupboard with a bullet in his head and his throat cut. The investigators chose to keep it quiet. After all, nobody wished to upset the family. It would be better if it was recorded as an accident.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to put this out there as valuable context to both Enjolras and R in "Be Strong And Stand With Me" but there was no where in this fic for this to fit comfortably.
> 
> Massive thank you to Sarah for being my beta for this and for listening to me witter at length! :)


End file.
